Page 71

Devious plots? He didn't know the half of it. Her mind was already spinning up ideas for snatches of dialogue... other characters... dramatic scenes. And suddenly, she couldn’t wait to start writing again.

West pulled her closer. “Well. It has been a long day. I should like to have some dinner and a quiet evening. With you."

"Do you know..." She tilted her head to look up at him.

"Do I know what?"

"That sounds just perfect."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“The entire house is exceedingly elegant and tasteful,” said Lady Sophronia. “It seems that the famous Monsieur Mazarine had a talent not only for design, but also for discerning what is best suited to his clients.”

“Well, no doubt being a spy gives him a great deal of insight into human nature,” said Charles.

Lady Alford pursed her lips and tossed her head. “Oh yes! By all means, laugh! Of course, it is most trying to me that my own family must continually mention that Monsieur Mazarine was a spy! But then, all of you have always amused yourselves at my expense! When the truth is that I am just as much a victim as anyone else! Indeed more so! And yet no one considers my feelings!”

“I beg your pardon, Caroline.” Lady Sophronia accepted a profiterole from the footman. “My remark was not directed at you. I am certain that no reasonable person believes that you had the slightest idea that Monsieur Mazarine was a secret agent.”

Lady Alford sat in frowning silence, apparently trying to work out whether Lady Sophronia had just insulted her intelligence, and considering whether she ought to take offense again.

Pomona’s entire family had gathered for the first dinner party ever held in the newly-redecorated March House. No one viewing the scene would have suspected that only six months before, the dining room had been a dark and bare shambles with a partially collapsed ceiling. Now candlelight gleamed on freshly polished silver and glowed on the mahogany sideboard. The thick damask curtains shut out the night, where rain was mixing with sleet, and everyone (except Lady Alford) was having a pleasant evening.

Pomona felt an unfamiliar warmth of security and happiness as she looked up and down the table. Charles and Celia—who were always giving each other adoring looks when they thought no one was looking—sat across from each other. They had returned to London from the country when Parliament had been recalled. Celia was glowing with happiness, her light brown hair and creamy skin set off by a strand of pearls and a simple blue gown. Meanwhile Charles was looking more relaxed and less haunted than Pomona had seen him look at any time since their father’s premature death. She caught his eye as he helped himself to some of the cake offered by a footman. “Excellent provender, Pom,” he said, with a nod.

Lady Theodosia and Lady Sophronia, her great aunt and grandmother respectively, sat on either side of West—exemplars of elegance, wit, beauty, and perfect posture, who both greatly approved of her choice of husband.

And of course, Lady Alford—the hair about her face crimped into ringlets, her neck and earlobes ablaze with a diamond and emerald parure, and only the sharp downturned lines at the corners of her mouth to betray her age—wore a dinner gown of deep green satin with blonde lace sleeves, and her usual expression of dissatisfaction. “Well, it is pleasant enough, I suppose. But it could have been so much more, if only Monsieur Mazarine only had the chance to add an imprimatur of true style to the house. We had talked of black marble panels in the entrance hall, you know. But I suppose now that is out of the question.”

“It was out of the question before Monsieur Mazarine’s disappearance, too,” said West.

Pomona tried not to smile, but she heard Charles snort.

West, in a dark jacket that set off his white neckcloth, was still a little paler than he’d been before the shooting, though only a doting wife would have noticed. As he leaned forward, listening to one of Lady Theodosia’s witty anecdotes with an amused gleam in his eyes, Pomona could have sworn that her heart swelled in her chest. To have her family gathered like this in her home had once seemed such an impossible dream that she'd never dared to imagine it.

“Well! I believe that I shall stay in town this winter after all.” Lady Alford was plainly feeling left out of the conversations at the table.

“Oh?” It usually fell to Charles to humor their mother.

“Yes. After all, that disagreeable Bertha Townley is gone at last.”

“Gone?” Charles frowned. “Surely you do not mean that she…”

“No, unfortunately. Still! When you hear what I have learned, you will have to admit that it is almost as good.”

“Ma’am, your enmity with Mrs. Townley is well-known, but”—

“Oh, come now. We are all adults in this room!” Lady Alford tossed her head. “Surely you have heard that Cecil Townley was said to have gone to a spa to be treated for sciatica?”

Pomona exchanged a quick look with West.

“Well, naturally, I assumed that they intended to go to Bath. And I simply could not bear to think that I would be seeing Townleys on every street corner and at every evening party! So... I made a few little inquiries—just to see how long they would be there. And that is how I learned that Cecil Townley is not going to Bath at all. He is going to a spa in Saxony." She looked up and down the table expectantly. "Well? Would you like to guess why?”

“Ma’am, as the Townleys are not friends of the family”—

“He has gone mad. Quite mad.” She smiled rapturously. “And I am the one who uncovered the whole story. He has gone to Germany to take the cure at Bad Pyrmont.”

“Bad Pyrmont?” Lady Theodosia’s eyebrows went up. “It is true that the waters there are said to be beneficial for nervous complaints, but”—